


Lighthouse

by bolero



Category: Bandom, Bandom: Fall Out Boy, Bandom: My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-26
Updated: 2010-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bolero/pseuds/bolero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey doesn't even really see how that makes sense. He's trying to add it up when Pete blows a ladybug off his arm and scrunches up his face, stopping in their steady parade of the grounds.</p><p>"What are you doing?"</p><p>"Wishing, man. Ladybugs are all kinds of good luck."</p><p>"What'd you wish for?"</p><p>"To backtrack on the yellow brick road and make it the fuck out of Oz."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lighthouse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at anon_lovefest on LJ. The prompt/request was: _"Pete and Mikey still meet, in the summer. Only in this 'verse they meet in a mental hospital. They've both been committed, Mikey voluntarily, Pete not so much."_ Title is lifted from "Play Crack the Sky" by Brand New.

Mornings begin early here. It's the first thing Mikey thinks every time his eyes crack open, the fluorescent kicking on automatically in his translucent room promptly at 7am. Not a minute later.

This morning though, he steals a glance at the bed across the room from him. Today it's empty, it's last occupant discharged two days ago. He thinks of the way Bert looked when the nurses claimed he was going home, hair in his face and eyes wild, darting left and right. Mikey envisioned dogs being dragged behind the vet's door; had turned his head from the whimpering sound echoing down the hall.

_July 10, July 10; today is Saturday, July 10. Yesterday was Friday. We had turkey and gravy for dinner, peach cobbler for dessert. I read three chapters of_ exit here. Mikey can't remember what he dreamed about but dismisses that as normal, whatever that means here.

He rubs his eyes in a vain attempt to clear the fog, and drops his bare feet to the cold tile. He makes it into the hallway after pulling on his cotton threadbare robe and sees he's clearly the last one out for the first round of meds. Everyone else is already filing into the dining hall, a smell vaguely similar to what used to be scrambled eggs wafting from the kitchens.

"Morning, sunshine," Althea clucks from behind her nurse's station, small white cup already in hand. "Thought I was gonna have to send a search party."

Mikey feels one corner of his mouth turn up automatically. "Nah, couldn't get the bars off the window last night." He takes the pills from her, one of each yellow, pink, and white, and swallows them dry.

Althea rolls her eyes, Mickey-Mouse-patterned scrubs shifting as she reaches for a clipboard, checks off the name _Way_ at the bottom of the list. "Well the good news is that there's always tonight," she says wryly.

Mikey returns her smirk and opens his mouth, lifting his tongue without being asked. She nods and as he starts to head down the hall towards the smell of burnt potatoes, the double-paned door leading to the exit hallway flies open.

He hears him before he sees him. Two male nurses are dragging him, literally dragging him, held up just by his biceps, coming backwards through the door. A head full of the darkest hair Mikey's ever seen is thrashing back and forth, socked heels pushing into the olive green tile frantically.

Mikey realizes this guy's saying words, things like _stop, you're hurting_ and _I didn't mean_ and everything's blending together and then the nurses turn. The guy looks at Mikey, big black eyes framed by big black lashes and there's just so _much_ black; Althea's at his side tapping a syringe and then there's a hoarse cry and then it's done.

They drag the man with the black hair and the cracked voice into the infirmary and Mikey realizes he's fallen to his knees in the empty hallway, side pressed against the wall beneath the nurse's station, clutching his robe tightly around his chest to keep it from caving in.

-

Mikey sees him again that night. It's late, well past lights out, but he's friendly with the orderlies on duty and they let him read in the hallway until his eyes start to droop and his nose brushes the page. Popping a yawn, he pushes the door to his room open, soft overhead light from the hallway flooding inside past the jamb.

The man's asleep in the bed across from his, curled up into himself and against the wall. Someone's put him in hospital blues, the sky-colored material starkly contrasting against his tan skin. His blunt, black fingernails are clutching his upper arms, knuckles white even his restless sleep.

Mikey doesn't know what to do for a few seconds; he feels his feet shuffle forward then back, as if even their mind is confused. He settles to walk in, closing the door softly behind him. The room's still got a sliver of moonlight seeping through the barred window, shadowed lines playing across the man's back.

Mikey edges around the dense forcefield he feels radiating off the other bed to climb into his own. Though he immediately turns over and burrows under his blanket, he doesn't sleep for several hours.

He remembers his dreams the next morning in fierce colors; flashes of olive green interjected with strobes of airy blue and never-ending black.

-

Monday afternoons are art therapy. This is when the hospital brings in a guest teacher, always someone different but always the same. Chipper and middle-aged female, usually with puffy permed curls and too many bangle bracelets that clatter when she gestures. Mikey tends to generally feel sorry for them and doesn't wonder why he's never seen the same teacher twice.

Today's teacher is Leslie, who will be teaching the patients how to make potholders from loops of multicolored fabric on small plastic looms. What they plan to use said potholders for when none of them cook is something Leslie doesn't address.

Mikey comes in through the back, a few minutes late. He takes a seat at the end of the last row, just as Leslie swoops in and places some materials on his desk. She smiles brightly at him and he nods in return.

He doesn't see the guy sitting next to him at first, until there's a muted snap and a soft curse. The man with the dark hair is clutching a broken orange crayon, several sheets of scribbled-upon white paper scattered around the desk in front of him.

"Can we really not have pencils in this place?" he asks, incredulously.

"Sharp points," Mikey says after a beat. "Same with pens."

"It's not like I'm gonna jam it in my throat…" he mumbles, reaching for another crayon resolutely.

"Maybe not you," Mikey responds cryptically, his eyes glancing around at the rest of the patients. He looks back at the man, whose mouth is slowly breaking into a toothy grin from under his dark bangs.

"I'm Pete," the guy says, reaching his hand across the table.

"Mikey." He clasps his fingers around Pete's, red crayon buffered between their palms. Their hands slide apart and Pete goes back to writing.

"So what are you in for?" Pete asks.

Mikey doesn't answer at first. Not many people have asked him that seriously, and if they had, Mikey took to answering as cheekily as possible each time. _Robbed a Chuck E. Cheese. Blew up a one-hour photo kiosk at the mall. Claimed I was one of the Rockefellers._

"I have problems with my memory."

Pete just looks back at him, so he continues.

"I was in high school and sometimes I'd wake up and it'd be three days later than what I really thought it was. My band and I would go play a show or I'd go on a date and wouldn't remember anything when I came home. In my head, it was like I wasn't even there."

He leans down, the back of his neck fitting into his palm to rest on the table. "And one day I woke up and it was two years later."

Pete's stopped writing. Their collective silence seems to stretch on so long that Mikey looks up from the table where the red square of the empty loom frame stares up at him.

Pete lays a hand on his back, fingers fitting into the beads of spine that poke up through Mikey's skin against his shirt. He comfortably slides it up and down and Mikey shrugs, suddenly antsy.

"You want to ditch this?" he asks, and Pete's smile is all the answer he needs.

-

It's sunny and breezy outside, an odd cool front passing through California this summer. The moment they get off the concrete and onto the grass of the hospital grounds, Pete rips off his shoes and socks to carry them instead.

"I really can't fucking believe I'm in this place." They're strolling in big circles and Pete drops down, snaps a blade of grass from the root. He brings it up to his mouth and honks like a duck, grinning.

"So why are you here then?"

"Long story," Pete rolls his eyes.

Mikey checks his imaginary watch. "I think I've got some time."

Pete barks a sudden laugh. "It was practically _Intervention._ Just minus my family and add a few cops."

Mikey doesn't even really see how that makes sense. He's trying to add it up when Pete blows a ladybug off his arm and scrunches up his face, stopping in their steady parade of the grounds.

"What are you doing?"

"Wishing, man. Ladybugs are all kinds of good luck."

"What'd you wish for?"

"To backtrack on the yellow brick road and make it the fuck out of Oz."

In the distance, their eyes travel up to the coils of barbed wire along the edge of the cement wall at the border of the grounds, metal and stone reaching at least fifteen feet over their heads.

"I love not wearing shoes in the summer," Pete says, wiggling his bare toes in the crabby grass and tossing a smile over his shoulder. Mikey cracks one back and thinks of the beach and the sound of seagulls echoing above the surface of the ocean; of some other lifetime.

-

Mikey learns, inadvertently, that when Pete actually does sleep, he has nightmares. He wakes up like they do in the movies, into a ninety-degree angle so fast Pete thinks he might accidentally detach from his skin; cold sweats and screaming bloody murder.

"I think I'm gonna try sleeping in your bed tonight, cool?" But Pete's already climbing in, sharp angles shoving into Mikey's space before he hears an answer. "This used to work with my ex-boyfriend."

"Yeah," Mikey hears himself say before he can think of (let alone vocalize) all the reasons why he shouldn't do this. And something about the echoing words _boyfriend, boyfriend, ex-boyfriend_ makes the pulse in Mikey's throat beat a little faster.

The twin bed is more than enough room to hold their rail-thin bodies. Mikey moves over to put himself between Pete and the door, his arms suddenly feeling very long and awkward.

Pete, absent of modesty, nudges Mikey's arm around him. His ear presses against Mikey's breastbone, hand full of the scratchy material of his shirt. Mikey feels Pete huff a relaxed sigh across his stomach.

"Okay?" Mikey asks, after swallowing a sizeable glob of nervous spit down his throat.

"So much better."

The silence that passes could fill the Grand Canyon.

"You're so tense," Pete complains after a few minutes, re-adjusting his head, looking for a soft spot.

"Huh?"

"YOU'RE SO TENSE," at full volume.

"Shh, God, I heard you, I heard you."

"So why'd you say huh?"

Mikey rolls his eyes, thinks vaguely his upper lip might be sweating. "Nevermind."

"Well loosen up. It's just me." Pete shakes the handful of material; noses against his ribs. "Let's sleep."

Mikey doesn't know why the warm blush waves over his upper body, or what makes him nod a little and tighten his fingers against the cap of Pete's shoulder.

-

On their fourth night, Mikey gets woken up by soft pulls at his scalp.

"Hmm?" He starts, his eyes slowly coming in to focus on Pete, still in the crook of his arm, petting gently against the dark hair at his temples.

"Sorry," he whispers, meeting Mikey's eyes. "Was just trying to get back to sleep."

There's a few seconds that go by between them, and at the time Mikey's not sure why he does it, but he licks his lips and presses his mouth against Pete's.

He hears the surprised breath Pete sucks in through his nose, feels the gentle slack when he relaxes into it. When Pete finally lets him in, Mikey threads the fingertips of both his hands into his hair, thumbs below his ears. He opens him up and can't stop; won't stop kissing him.

Pete edges out from under him, pushing Mikey into the mattress and leaning his body weight into their kiss. Mikey's fingers splay at Pete's hips; tug until Pete's above him, straddling his waist, toes tucked under Mikey's kneecaps. The wet sounds their mouths make together echo in the small room, careening off the white-painted bricks.

Something breaks inside Mikey and he needs skin, needs more than what's in front of him. _Need to see you,_ he manages to get out across Pete's mouth, so he pushes at his shirt and finally gets it off, paints with his fingers to watch the ink spread outward from Pete's heart, up around his throat and down his arms.

Their movements are small but already rhythmic, the points of their hipbones waltzing in silent measures. Mikey gets his own shirt off in one quick pull, already too hot under his clothes. He finds the drawstring on Pete's thin cotton pants, pulls at the bow to get a hand inside. His other hand finds one of Pete's, twines together to balance him, pushing his elbow into the mattress to hold him up.

Pete's seeing stars already; his arms give out and he drops his face into the crook of Mikey's moist neck. It startles him how vocal Pete is, loud cries muffled against skin as they move in harmony. Pete pushes down again, arching his spine and throwing his head back to present the long line of his throat, and all thoughts escape Mikey. He just stares at the beauty above him, lost in the twirling kaleidoscope of patterns.

-

Althea sees them every day, and she's no fool. The matching sleep-rumpled hairstyles that come out of room 7 every morning weren't made by accident. She's a trained professional. Twenty-five years in public health care, in places a lot worse than this, and she doesn't play favorites with her patients. Except nobody else gets earfuls like Mikey does.

"You better be careful, sugar," she warns under her breath at him one morning. "He didn't come here for the same reasons you did."

Mikey takes his paper cup from her, swallows his pink, yellow, and white. "But now he's here for the same reasons."

Althea meets his eyes and he holds her gaze a few seconds before he turns towards breakfast.

-

"Maybe you are getting better but you can't really tell. This place is like a fucking time void, Mikey. This isn't real life."

Mikey doesn't agree or disagree, just replays his therapist's words in his head. _In the past couple of weeks I haven't seen improvement, Mister Way. In fact, I've seen a significant decline in your memory retention. I'm questioning your dedication to your recovery._

The silence starts to eat away at Pete's brain. "What was your plan coming in here?"

"Get in, get better, get out."

"And now?"

Mikey doesn't answer.

"They can't make you stay here."

"They can't make you stay here either, Pete."

He plays with a loose thread on Mikey's shirt; bends his knees to press the soles of his feet nervously against the mattress. "What if. Me, Mikey. What if I'm just fucking up your whole plan?" Pete doesn't look at him.

"Don't say things like that."

"What if it's true?" He's a ball of antsy energy now; ticking his toes into the fabric and chewing what's left of the black polish off his thumbnail.

"Trust me, you're not fucking it up, Pete."

_You're part of the plan now._

-

"Where are you going to go when you get out?"

"Dunno. I'm not going back to school."

"Why?"

Pete huffs an impatient sigh, annoyed with himself more than Mikey. "Well, I can't, first of all. And I wouldn't want to even if I could."

He opts for the silent approach to try and hear more, so Mikey just reaches across his stomach to hold onto Pete's fingers.

"I got sent here because I tried to kill myself in my dorm room. I swallowed a bunch of pills and then went up on the roof, or whatever. I didn't realize what I was doing and I just. Left everything everywhere. So my roommate came home and saw everything. My meds, my shit thrown everywhere. Followed the sounds up to where I was, dangling my legs off our building. Had to quite literally talk me off the ledge. My school told me I was a danger to myself and made me come here."

His raspy voice delivers the story quickly, like it might hurt less if it's over faster. Mikey's already turned on his side, slid his hand up, cupped at Pete's elbow.

"Why'd you do it?"

"I was just sick of not feeling. I was sick of getting lost in my own thoughts. I was sick of waking up and realizing I didn't want to wake up." Never this vulnerable before, Pete chews at his lip, searching Mikey's eyes.

"Am I going to get better?"

Mikey edges in. He pushes the dark bangs out of Pete's eyes and leans their foreheads together. "What do you think?"

Pete's hands find their way. Pressed into Mikey's chest, fingers over his heart. He nods gently, both their heads moving as one, and Mikey believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to these songs a lot while writing this. I think they serve as good background music:
> 
> _Thrice – Digital Sea  
> Bright Eyes – From a Balance Beam  
> The Beatles – Blackbird  
> The Cinematic Orchestra – To Build a Home  
> The xx - Infinity  
> Gorillaz – El Manana  
> Brand New – Play Crack the Sky_
> 
> &amp; you can download a .zip file of these songs [here](http://www.sendspace.com/file/fyhzmh).


End file.
